


Cat of Twilight

by CruelKittenThesis



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Brief attempted assault, Hurt/Comfort, Implied spoilers for the whole game, M/M, Probably ooc, Very fluffy, brief mention of gore and abuse, canon divergence that is never fully explained, non detailed sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 14:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20707340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CruelKittenThesis/pseuds/CruelKittenThesis
Summary: The killing game has long since ended, but one night, Shuichi runs into someone familiar, someone everyone thought was dead.





	Cat of Twilight

**Author's Note:**

> I originally was going to call this “Cat Box,” but since that’s associated with litter boxes, I tried to go with something that had the same meaning, since twilight is between day and night. 
> 
> Yes, I stole the Homer Sexual pun from The Simpsons, but I felt that Saihara completely missing the joke would make for a funny joke on it’s own. 
> 
> This is heavily inspired by Umineko, but at the same time, is nothing like Umineko. 
> 
> There’s a lot of canon divergence that doesn’t get a full explanation, and I feel this fic is pretty subpar in a lot of aspects, but I hope you enjoy, regardless. 
> 
> Sadly, I couldn’t find a way to mention that Maki and Himiko run a babysitting service in this au, so I’m mentioning it here. It bares no effect on the plot, but I rather like the idea.

It was cold, Shuichi rubbed his hands together, feeling the iciness spreading to the tips of his fingers, making them tingle. He yawned, wandering rather aimlessly through the night. 

Harukawa and Yumeno, were, as they always were at this time of night, sleeping peacefully, or as peacefully as they could. The trio, like a makeshift family, shared their apartment and lived, maybe not perfectly, and maybe not always happily, but despite all the odds, they lived, and they were grateful. 

The outside world wasn’t as happy as their fabricated memories, but it also wasn’t as cruel as those memories made it seem. It was in poverty and decay, something that had been started far before their own births, but society still existed, and people still survived.

Shuichi liked the night, and he liked being alone. Being around people made him anxious, because he was, like the other survivors, paradoxically completely unknown to anyone who didn’t watch Dangan Ronpa, and yet totally known, at least known in a cartoonish, exploited way, to those who’d watched him suffer. And he could never know who knew and who didn’t, unless they told him. 

The moon, overlooking the almost empty street like a benevolent god that saw everything, but didn’t care about any of it, illuminated the nearly empty streets with a yellow glow. Shuichi shivered, realizing at this point he should head home. He turned, and started to walk towards. 

“Hey,” a voice called to him. It was raspy, probably from too many cigarettes, and tinged with all the fake warmth of cheap whisky, “Do I know you?” 

Shuichi ignored him, best to head home and hope there wouldn’t be any trouble. But, luck was not a talent he was blessed with. 

A grimy, dirty hand grabbed his thin arm, and held him, tightly, as Shuichi attempted to tug himself out of his grip, “Hey, you fucking asshole! I’m talking to you!” 

Shuichi reluctantly turned to face the man harassing him. The man was dirty, ragged, with scabbed, haggard skin, and blood shot eyes. He looked like the kind of person who was so unhappy and miserable that he wanted to take it out on the world around him. Shuichi wondered if his old self would have related to the sentiment, but quickly pushed the thought out of his mind. 

This situation was dangerous, and he knew it. He didn’t have kind of weapon to defend himself against whatever kind of abuse this man was planning to inflict on him. His own, nervous, dark eyes, stared meekly into his potential attacker’s sunken, pale blue ones. 

“I’m sorry, you must be mistaken,” Suichi stated, trying to pull himself out of the man’s grip. 

The man just smiled at him, toothy and hateful, “I’m pretty sure I do. Weren’t you on some kind of TV show?” 

Shuichi’s eyes went wide, “I’ve never been on TV.”

“Hey, you like pain, right, pretty boy?” He edged closer to him, so much that Shuichi could smell his sour, alcohol-tinged breath. “You’re a sicko that loves to kill, right?” 

Shuichi looked away, only to hear a crashing sound, and feel a weight being lifted off his arm. He looked, in shock, to see a tiny figure reaching his hand out to him, and his almost attacker shoved to the ground. 

Shuichi stared, dumbfounded, at the man holding his hand out to him. The tiny, lithe body, dark hair that curled at the ends from too much twisting, bright violet eyes, and impish smile. It was unmistakable, but before his brain could process what to say, the man spoke for him. 

“I think you have him mistaken,” he smiled, and laughed, “I’m traveling from the USA, and my name is Homer Sexual. I’m a famous writer, so that must be where you remember me from. I’m here with my lovely fiancé, who’s name I have to keep secret. You see, he was the best agent in The Cabinet Intelligence and Research Office of Japan, until he was too good, and framed for a crime which he did not commit. That’s when he ran into me, the troubled, but good hearted writer, who was able to see things he missed, and now we must work to clear his name.”

The tiny man gripped his now free arm tightly, “Well? My darling, let’s run! We don’t have much time left.” Shuichi squeezed his hand, and they ran, as far and as fast as they could. As they sprinted off, Ouma turned and yelled, “Make sure to google my name online! That way you can see my books!”

There was no mistaking this was Ouma, no one would give themselves such an obviously fake name like Homer Sexual, when he was clearly Japanese, but Shuichi didn’t mind, and his chest tightened when he realized he actually missed Ouma’s ridiculous antics, at least, on some level. 

That was when Ouma let go of his hand. Shuichi grabbed it, again, softly, and squeezing. It was warm, it felt nice in the cold, but more than that, the warmth was proof. “Ouma-kun,” Saihara said, softly, barley higher than the wind. 

But he knew Ouma heard him, because he stopped in his tracks, and squeezed Shuichi’s hand back. “I’m not Ouma, you know. Ouma Kokichi was proclaimed dead. You’re mistaking me for someone else.” His voice was equally soft, wanting to push Shuichi away, but wanting to get closer, all at once. 

“That’s a lie, isn’t it?” Shuichi’s response may have been a question, but it was a rhetorical one.

Ouma turned to face him, still unwilling to let go of his hand, “You never saw what happened, not really, so how can you be sure? Hmm? What if I’m a clone or a twin!”

“I don’t think a clone or twin would have all of my Ouma-kun’s memories, “ Shuichi answered thoughtfully, “And you’re still holding my hand, you know.”

Ouma giggled, “Nishishi! Your Ouma-kun? When did my beloved Saihara-chan get so possessive?”

Shuichi stuttered, red and flustered, “Y-you! You say that, but you just called me your ‘beloved!’ “

Ouma gave him a smile, “That’s because I love you, Saihara-chan! I love you most of all!” 

Shuichi looked as if he didn’t know what to say, so he squeezed Ouma’s again. After a moment, he spoke again, “You always say you love me, but you always pushed everyone away, including me. Even now, had I not grabbed your hand, you’d definitely had run off again!”

Ouma looked at the ground, “I’m a supreme evil leader, remember? I can’t let people get too close, or they might assassinate me! Take over my organization, and then run all the world governments into a new world war!” 

“You don’t have to be alone,” Shuichi replied, “You can come home with me, if you want. You’re my friend, and I care about you.”

“You’re not gonna assassinate me in my sleep, right?”

“No, never.”

“Hey, did you know I was alive?” Ouma turned to face him again, looking venerable. 

“I didn’t, but I wanted to believe you were,” Shuichi moved closer to Ouma, so that their arms were pressed together, as well as their hands, “You became Schrödinger’s Cat. I couldn’t know if you were alive or dead, because even that video wasn’t truly consecutive proof. You know, I once read a book about someone in a Schrödinger’s Cat situation, where he couldn’t know if the cat was alive or dead.” 

Ouma’s face was flush, “What did the man do? Was the cat alive?”

Shuichi shook his head, “You never find out. But, he states that, if when he opens the box, and find that the cat is dead, he’ll mourn its loss. But, if he opens it and the cat’s alive, he’ll embrace and love it.”

“So,” Ouma breathed out heavily, “What are you planning to do with me?”

Instead of answering with words, Shuichi pulled him close, and held him tightly. Both their hearts were beating rapidly, as if trying to communicate something wordless to each other. 

“You aren’t doing this because of some book, right? Some sense of justice because you’re a detective, right?” Ouma’s voice sounded much more subdued than usual, sounding as if it might break. 

“No, I’m doing this because I care about you,” Shuichi wrapped his arms tighter around the smaller man, so that the tip of his nose was touching Ouma’s dark hair, “I want to understand you.” 

Ouma leaded into the touch, as if he was trying to melt into Shuichi’s body, “I have something I need to show you.” 

Breaking apart the hug was almost painful, but they walked hand in hand, through the dirty streets to an old, dilapidated apartment complex. Shuichi wondered briefly if the stairs were going to collapse under them, as Ouma led him up. 

“This is just a secret base to cover up for my real base,” Ouma said, his hands shaking in the cold, as he pulled a key out of his pants pocket, and shook the knob until it came unlocked. 

The actual apartment was a mess, somehow even in a worse state than Shuichi’s shared one. Stacks of books and magazines were everywhere, which made Shuichi wonder where he’d even found so many. There were bags of old electronics, bags of tools, and other assorted things on the floor. 

In the center of the room, sitting in a worn out chair, was a damaged, but intact robot. A very familiar robot, who’d been dressed in a feather boa. His antenna hair, though, was notably missing, and there was a hole in his chest. 

“Kiibo-kun?” Shuichi was shocked, “You’re alive?” 

The robot did not respond to him, and Ouma snickered again, “Nishishi! Are you happy, Saihara-chan? I’m trying to fix him! He’s not awake, and I’m no Iruma-chan! But, maybe one day he will be able to turn on, again. But, Maybe I’ll rewrite him to my personal butler, or maybe I’ll change him into a plane.”

“This is amazing,” Shuichi could feel himself tearing up with happiness, the fact that one of his friends was alive, and the fact another might be coming back. He felt like he might burst. 

“Are you happy?” Ouma leaned up, pressing their noses together, smiling in his puckish way. 

And Shuichi kissed him, pressing their lips together gently. He wasn’t in the habit of kissing anyone, and certainly not spontaneously, but it felt like the right thing to do. Ouma started at him, as they parted, his mouth in a serious line. 

Shuichi looked at him nervously, and opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could get any sound out, he felt Ouma’s hands on his cheeks, pulling him down. 

And they were kissing, hungry, desperately. Their hands were everywhere, touching every inch of skin they could get to. Ouma moaned into his mouth, as Shuichi realized he’d pinned him to the ground, unsure how they’d even gotten into that position, or how his right hand had been had gotten to the point it was squeezing Ouma’s skinny hip, darting dangerously close to his waistband. 

Shuichi sat up, abruptly, the situation hitting him like a cold shower, “Um.”

Ouma looked at him, wide eyed and clearly worried, “It’s okay if you don’t want to. I’m not like that gross guy in the alley, or that awful fucking TV show that used those stupid tapes to do whatever they wanted.”

“I do want to,” Shuichi admitted, his cheeks pink, “I just, felt weird about it being in front of Kiibo, even if he’s, uh, not on.” He reached out to stroke Ouma’s cheek, returning his worried gaze, “But, are you okay with that? You know not being okay with something extends to yourself as well, right?”

In that moment, it hit Shuichi how little he actually knew about Ouma Kokichi. He had no idea what kind of past he had, or if he’d been in some kind of bad situation where he’d been forced into something awful. But, he could understand the fear and hatred of those confession tapes. Nasty, awful things that proved you wanted whatever happened to you. It was okay to have your body mutilated or torn into pieces, exposing all your pretty pink organs to the voyeuristic crowds. You wanted it, even if you cried for it to stop, you’d already said yes, so you couldn’t say no.

“Oh,” Ouma said, and took Shuichi’s hand, again, and squeezed it, “I do, Saihara-chan.” He stood up, still holding his hand, “I want to show you how I feel, because my mouth tells lies, but my body is painfully honest.” 

Shuichi stood up, and let Ouma lead him into his bedroom, which was less messy than the other room, if only marginally. At least, the futon, with its white sheets, was clean and neat. 

And they were kissing again, much more carefully, much more thoughtfully. They undressed in between kisses, throwing their clothes to the ground. 

“Hey,” Shuichi pulled off his last sock, “Since we’re doing this, would you call me by my given name, instead of my surname, Kokichi-kun?”

“Of course,” Kokichi leaned forward to kiss him again, “My lovely Shuichi-chan.” 

Shuichi kissed him back, and they had no more words, just kisses. They held their bodies together, in an act of mutual desire to be understood, a desire to be loved. 

When their bodies were finally spent, Kokichi cried, and Shuichi held him, stroking his hair, until he shut his eyes. He knew so little about Kokichi, but he knew he’d eventually learn everything. All his likes and dislikes, his favorite foods and the songs that get stuck in his head when he’s bored.

“I missed you.” 

“I missed you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted the name change to signify them taking a step to being closer and opening up to each other, though I’m not sure how well it came across


End file.
